Shades of Gray
by love-fool
Summary: Gray. Such a dismal color. No matter what shade of it you have, it's still dismal. There is no reason for this. Nothing needs a reason. [One shot]


[Disclaimer: I do not own Lizzie McGuire, did you actually think I did?]  
  
[A/N: I am so sorry for not updating anything in a while, I have lost some inspiration for the time being and I'm being incredibly lazy. So, I'm here to thrill you with a one shot fic, enjoy.or not.]  
  
[Warnings: Rated "R" for language and mildly disturbing elements. Please, read with caution.]  
  
The sun hangs lazily in the sky as I sit lying on my bed, pitying myself and getting incredibly depressed over nothing. Nothing seems right or wrong anymore, everything is a shade of gray, but in different tints and hues. Oh fuck it, this isn't art class and I'm sure as hell no artist by any means. I'm not exactly the artistic kind of guy; intellect is more of my ground, my territory. Yet again even knowledge, the one thing I was the master of, didn't seem to make sense lately.  
  
I watch the sun creep slowly down towards the horizon as the sky appears as though it's on fire. Everything lately seems to be drifting away from my view and grasp. I can kind of compare it to when you have lotion on your hands, and you're trying to open the door and you can't exactly get a firm holding on the door because of the lotion. That's how I've kind of been lately, there's been something stopping me, like the lotion stops you from opening the door. Nothing seems to make sense; I could just try to put the pieces of the puzzle together in my head, but always there would be a piece that would be out of place.  
  
Look how incredibly pathetic I am. I'm making analogies that involve puzzles and lotion; I am so utterly confused that I can't even sound intelligent. Great, now I'm degrading myself for no particular reason. I am incredibly pathetic and I don't even know why. I can't bear to explain anything lately, mostly because I don't have the words to explain anything. It's kind of weird, considering I'm a "words of wisdom" guy. I'm not supposed to be making random poetic analogies. I'm turning into some beat poet that Parker McKenzie hangs around with, god save me now. I shouldn't even be thinking of that loud mouth banshee, I'm supposed to be thinking of Lizzie McGuire.  
  
Lizzie and I, we really never worked out. Yeah I liked her as more than a friend, but I never really loved her. Everyone wants us to be the Cory and Topanga of Hillridge High School, it's so screwed up. I don't want to be living in some poorly written teen movie where best friends fall in love and all is well that ends well. As deranged as it sounds, I want to learn from mistakes and have some hardship in my life. I want to have a basis for making decisions and all of that psychotic bullshit. I have a great life and great friends, but yet again here I am alone in my room surrounded by misery and depression. Misery does love company, doesn't it? Here I am lost in a sea of clichés, poetic angst, and self pity. The bad thing is that I'm starting to drown in the sea that I've created. The more I sink into this uncalled for depression, the deeper my sea gets. Well there's some form of word imagery right there, my friends. I'm creating more and more pity as I lie here thinking. Maybe I should just shut off my mind for a while so I can stop creating my own disaster area.  
  
Sometimes I just feel like giving up. I don't mean doing myself in; I mean just locking myself in my closet for the rest of my life so I can just cower in there forever. I just want to hug my legs to my chest and go into a fetal position, because I need some kind of comfort. Lizzie and Miranda sure as hell aren't aware of how depressed and distant I've been lately. I honestly think that they don't really give a crap about me. They're too worked up in their superficial pleasures and worries. Miranda is too busy glowing because of the fact that she dates Ethan Craft. Lizzie is just, well, Lizzie. I just sit there with this glazed look lingering in my blue eyes as they completely ignore me.  
  
There I go again, feeling sorry for myself because I'm being "ignored". Why? Why do I make this sea of pity and depression for myself? There I go again with my poetic angst, which just keeps building on top of the other shit I've created for myself. How freaking peachy. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I'm just making my so-called "situation" worse as I think about it more and more. If only I could be like Ethan Craft, and just shut my brain down forever. I could think about things like hot babes, golf, grape soda, and other mindless pleasures. I would give anything just to walk in his shoes and be a mindless moron for one day. Just one day. Then I wouldn't have to worry about thinking about my depression and wallowing in my pity. I could just live life incredibly simple. It'd be like that Hakuna Matata thing on "The Lion King". Yet again Disney creates mindless movies with a pinch of morals, cheesy romance, and a happy ending. If only I could live in an incredibly cliché movie.  
  
I can't take being depressed anymore. I can't take the confusion and the pity. I want to be happy again. I want all of the things that I simply cannot have. It makes me want to just lock myself up in a room with white padded walls. There's a story for the grapevine, Gordo going insane. Everyone would so enjoy that. They wouldn't be overwhelmed with my preachings about unconformity and hypocrisy.  
  
I open the door of my fortress of solitude and trudge towards the front door. I need to take a walk. Walking always clears my mind when it becomes all foggy. With closing the door behind me, I'm outside. The warm July weather makes me break a slight sweat. Well, at least it's better than being cooped up inside and feeling sorry for myself.  
  
I pass happy children; they remind me of how I was when I was their age. I was naïve, happy, carefree, and energetic. Now I'm the antonyms of those words. I hate feeling sorry for myself, yet I do it anyway. Why? Why do I do this to myself? I try not to, but I still do it. Maybe I should just try and shut down my mind for a while.  
  
Sighing, I keep on walking. I feel like going to Miranda's house to talk things out with her. She's always been more understanding than Lizzie when it comes to hard subjects like depression. Lizzie's always busy glaring at Miranda with complete envy that Miranda of all people is going out with Ethan Craft. I still don't know what either of them sees in that brain-dead ape. He's so simplistic that it's nauseating. Ethan knows he's good looking and slightly uses it to his advantage. He's the king of the tenth grade, yet he's going to end up working at Burger Buddy like the rest of the good looking dumb asses.  
  
The sun has almost completely set. Glimmering orange, pink, and red tones light up the sky like a vibrant painting. The patches of red and orange blend together much like on the artist's palette. Sunsets are one of those things that everyone calls beautiful. It's not a matter of opinion really. And the sunsets will always stay beautiful and glorious. It's one of those things you can depend on. People are so mercurial, you can't depend on them. But sunsets.you can depend on.  
  
I start to kick a pebble as I walk. All of my raw emotion, I'm taking out on this small, black piece of rock. The pebble reminds me of, well, myself. It just sits back and takes the abuse it's being put through. Except for the fact that I really have no abuse that I'm really going through at the moment. It's all in my mind. The more I dwell on it, the more it's completely irrational that I am just this overwhelmed by emotions that I've created myself.  
  
The more I dwell, the worse things get. But it's kind of hard for me not to dwell and think. I'm like a fucking hamster on a wheel; I need to think like the hamster needs to keep running while it thinks that it's actually getting somewhere. That's a hilarious concept, actually getting somewhere. I could go off on a tangent right now, but if you want to have a tangent, someone actually has to listen.  
  
Miranda would listen, if she wasn't so wrapped up being Ethan Craft's girlfriend. God, how can my best friends be so wrapped up superficial shit like who they're dating and what not? Miranda's alright though, the idea of being his girlfriend is getting less and less thrilling and exciting for her. It's almost like she's been at a carnival all day long and wants to go home.  
  
Don't even get me started on Lizzie. She's always been wrapped up in herself, trying to get sympathy off of everyone else. It's like she thinks that we all carry around a pail full of free sympathy to hand out. "Here you go, Lizzie. We're so sorry that you come from a loving family and have supportive friends. That must be so horrible, being blond and beautiful and having tons of guys want you."  
  
Please, gag me with a spoon.  
  
She hasn't done many selfless acts in her life, yet people think she's a freaking saint or something. Holy crap, she uses all of the support that Miranda and I give her to her advantage, never really giving anything in return. Well, she probably in some girl bonding moment with Miranda, gave Miranda support or whatever, but not me. I'm always the footnote. The afterthought. I'm like that mangy dog that follows you around. It's sad really, when your supposed best friends don't appreciate you.  
  
Speaking of Lizzie, there she is about half a mile in the distance. Her bubblegum pop music is blaring as the wheels of her red Volkswagen beetle drive along the red hot black topped road. How can she honestly be so happy and upbeat? Oh right, because she's reaping the benefits of everyone's appreciation and what not.  
  
I need some appreciation, but it doesn't look like I'm getting any anytime soon. I hate my life. I want to die. I hate feeling so depressed. I want everything just to end.  
  
Before I know it, I'm walking into the middle of the road, attempting to look casual while carrying out my mission. Thank god that Lizzie can't drive for the life of her. Thank you. Now she can do her selfless act and redeem herself. She can put me out of my misery. Thank you, Lizzie. Thank you.  
  
The screech of the brakes is the last thing I hear before I feel myself almost flying in the air. It's somewhat liberating, until you smack down hard on the pavement and hear the sobbing and apologies of Lizzie McGuire from her car. I can slightly hear the beeping that Lizzie's manicured fingers make when she dials 911 on her cell phone.  
  
The last minutes are kind of a blur to me. I could hear the ambulances coming and Lizzie crying. Please Lizzie, don't cry. You saved me and put me out of my misery. Don't be sad. Would you rather me be miserable for the rest of my life or go away knowing that all of my turmoil has been put behind me? Why would you want me to be depressed, Lizzie? If you were truly my friend, you'd want me to be happy.  
  
The last words I heard from her were, "Please don't die, Gordo. Please. I love you, you're my best friend. I'm so sorry."  
  
Don't be. 


End file.
